


The good, the mischievous, and the somewhat ambiguous

by BlueberryPaincake



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: F/M, Fae AU, I am whipped for this rarepair, Kirumi is a bad bitch, Miya is an unseelie, Multi, So please remember it's fiction, Witch Kirumi, accurate to fae lore, fae kiyo, or witchcraft, tbh I just tried to enjoy this so I know its not the most, the others are just bitches, there's a borb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueberryPaincake/pseuds/BlueberryPaincake
Summary: A young witch finds herself being the current fixation of a nearby forest faerie.Disclaimer: all fiction, none of this is accurate to any irl practices or lore.
Relationships: Chabashira Tenko/Yumeno Himiko, Gokuhara Gonta/Hoshi Ryoma, Shinguji Korekiyo/Tojo Kirumi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. To Capture a Fae's Attention

Fae are so often removed from human culture. The music they play is one in tune with the sounds of nature, a hypnotic duet done to enchant the listener. Low hums, chirps, and growls leave their lips as easily as sighs leave a lovestruck fool. Thus, one must understand the intrigue and curiosity that overcomes the faery when he hears a bow strike chords out in the middle of his forest. It streams through the trees as flowers do his hair, and he follows, for the land is his and he fears nothing within its bounds. 

Notes climb high above the leaves and escape into the air, leaving him to mourn their loss. He desires nothing more than to capture them and keep them singing within his home. Very few songs of such nature, of  _ human _ nature, blend with the song of the forest. Though this music is an offering, as it leaves incomplete notes only meant to be answered by the forest, by  _ him _ .

The trail he follows leads to a small figure in his grove. By small he does mean according to fae standards. She stands far taller than the other human women he’d seen and lured in the past, though when he decides to appear more humanoid she is still smaller than him. 

He approaches curiously, charmed by her song. Like the children and young women before her she offers a little gift for entertainment, though that may fail to remain captivating for so long. 

She spots him when he assumes his place in the small fairy circle he sprouts around a rock nearby. The poor thing jumps and her instrument falls to the ground at her feet with a hollow thump. He walks out willingly, flowers blooming in wake of his steps. The carved item’s strings dig lightly into his palm as he lifts it to return it to her, far too interested in her playing to wait for her to gather her wits.

“Do continue.” She hesitates for a short moment, her eyes roaming his form before she gingerly reaches out to take her instrument. Smart girl to refrain from keeping him waiting. But she still waits, looking at him with wide eyes until he decides to humor her and returns to seat himself in his circle. Moss sprouts atop the stone as he rests his back against it. Humans often view their circles as barriers. Though what purpose they serve is often speculated, he finds humans far more willing to engage with him when he manifests one, despite the entire forest being his domain. The faerie fixes her with an interested stare. His rule remains.

Her bow affixes itself into place and chords ring out as she strikes them carefully. The song plays and he is pleased to hear it  _ is  _ an offering. 

She’s a pretty little thing, beautiful even. The rays of the sun reach out to lightly caress her fair skin as it does a flower’s petals, glinting off her silvery blond hair.  _ Oh? _ He tilts his head, interested in moving closer to inspect such fine, uncommon fibers, but the notes grow unsure and he’s displeased to see her nearly take a step away from him. 

Shoulders squaring, she finishes her playing and lowers her arms. He frowns, dissatisfied with such a pleasant tune being so short. “Continue.” The fae commands, making her freeze her motions, having begun gathering her basket of items obtained from his land. 

Silently, she gracefully returns to her former posture and he’s vexed to hear the same chords begin to sing. His brows lower like clouds descending upon the earth.“Not that one, a different song.” 

“Lord Fae, I know only this song.” Her lips bring him another gift. She speaks softly, her voice matching the tune of the instrument in its lightness but the notes in their firm delivery. His lips pull back into a menacing smile.

“May I have your name?” He asks, with a grasping gesture. Her eyes turn sharp, like the foxes that build their dens in his home during winter. 

“You may call me witch.” His grin grows wider and he stands, pleased to find such an interesting and beautiful plaything. “Oh, so we play this game,  _ little witch _ .” The faerie speaks her title like a sonnet, amusement lacing his tone. She lifts her chin and he allows the dismissive action as a comment.

“I shall learn another to offer when I return.” She sets her instrument down into her basket, careful to keep from showing him her back. He studies the items in her basket: berries, flora, leaves, and stones fill it. Little witch indeed.

“You may go.” Footsteps hurried, she doesn’t thank him, and he's pleased by this. His eyes follow her hungrily as she leaves.

  
  



	2. A Different Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be posting weekly, most likely Monday or Tuesday.

“Miss witch please!” The young red haired boy follows her desperately as she hurries past him. Her boots dig into the mud with each rushed step. Grip tightening around her basket handle, she dismisses him. “Again, I do  _ not _ provide those services. Good day.” The boy falls behind her as she enters the grove, hesitant to enter the den.

She huffs as her pace slows, her heart failing to beat in time. “My, my, what an unpleasant mood.” Her grip nearly fails on her basket and for a quick second she believes the boy followed her in a fit of desperation. “Hello again,  _ little witch _ .” It’s then that she remembers why he left.

When the fae speaks her title he chirps out the syllables, a faint call sounding, but she can hear him reveling in the no doubt sweet taste each word has as they leave his tongue. His voice is distinct, reminding her of water cascading down flower petals in its rhythm and lightness. Back straightening, she clears her throat and is mindful of the clover resting in her pocket. Before she began playing her violin, she’d enter and exit silently, like the sun making its natural descent to night, allowing her to leave without ever seeing the keeper of the forest. Now, it seems he is lying in wait for her.

“Lord fae.” She speaks curtly, turning to nod her head at him. He rests on the extended branch of a nearby rowan tree, his head in his hand and his arm on the branch as he looks at her with a catlike grin, predatory yet playful. Understanding where she lies on the spectrum between prey and plaything is key to dealing with a faerie. Knowing of those that have been lost to him, young women and small children, she is in dire need of her wits.

His long hair spills over the branches to the floor, cascading and glistening in the sunlight, almost appearing to run into the ground and puddle into a small stream. She looks away after a few seconds, careful to avoid being hypnotized by his charm.

The witch makes her way to the clearing from before, cognisant of his gaze, and rests her bow and instrument delicately against the same tree of before. “You’re not going to play now?” The petulance of the question nearly makes her laugh, but, being aware of the consequences of offending such an entity, she simply nods. “My music is a parting gift.” She says, turning to see him resting in his spot from before. The space where he had once stepped is rife with small pink flowers, the gap where his feet had been now filled in.

“Then might you be interested in a deal,  _ little witch _ ?” It’s as though he revels in speaking the title. She shakes her head silently and leaves to gather her required goods. As she plucks berries from the bushes and sows seeds back into the soil a voice sounds. “Were you looking for anything in particular?” 

Despite herself the witch flinches. Leaves rustle behind her, as though the forest is laughing at her. The trees around her are devoid of figures, yet his voice sounds again. “Answer me.” His words whisper past her ears, fading as a faint breeze graces her cheeks.

“Yes.” She answers shortly.

“If you answer a query of mine perhaps I can guide you to it.” The witch considers his offer. This particular protection spell had been requested by a friend that has been experiencing depressive episodes, so she will find the flower no matter what as per her promise. However... hours searching the fae grove is asking for trouble. Far too many children have been lost after falling asleep in their forests. At best she may leave dazed with fae knots in her hair. The worst is nigh imaginable.

“I shall answer one question of your choice, but not about or for my name, nor any other. In exchange you will lead me to the flower 'St. John's wort'.” She lays out her conditions with a strict tone, uninterested in vague phrasing he may take advantage of against her. 

“Follow the thorn trees south and near the babbling brook you may find what you seek.” Trusting the words of a faerie is always a gamble, but luck happens to require this bit of recklessness from her. Chiming, faint bells begin to ring in her ears as she approaches the brook, making her lose focus as she kneels against the water. Her voice sounds over them as she quietly chants to herself a short spell to keep her focused. Cutting the flowers in time with her voice, her basket is slowly filled with them until she has what she needs and thensome. 

When she returns to the grove, basket full of flora and bits of earth she picked along the way, he’s seated on his rock, looking over at her with an eager cat-like grin. 

The witch sets down her basket and kneels down next to the tree. “Your question?”

His eyes twinkle in amusement. “What was that boy so desperately begging you for?” Ah. A strange question, but she isn’t surprised. Fae are known to be flighty, taking interest in a particular human or situation only to lose it after the initial allure has faded. This is most likely a harmless question.

“He requested I make him a love spell or charm of some sort.” He tilts his head curiously, owlish eyes blinking. “Specifically to attract a woman into being his partner. I don’t craft such things.” She reaches down for her instrument, ready to end their conversation.

“Ah, you don’t make charms for others.” Despite his statement, she knows it’s a question in disguise, but considering its nature she’s bound to correct him. His eyes travel her person before landing on her hands, which rest next to her bow. 

“I do, however, not those types.” With that she stands, and begins to play her song to the forest. She strums the first note and it’s as though the trees themselves sigh in contentment, their leaves rustling in appreciation. The song is her tribute to the forest, to the fae that watches over her town, yes perhaps even him despite the fact that he’s stolen young women and children. He seems to sway as she strums idly, each note easing itself into place behind the other. Indeed, the forest is a sacred one to the witch, offering her something that could never be put into words. Sanctity to some, a second home to others, and perhaps sanctuary. While it may be a place of danger, to her it is perhaps all of them, a place of refuge, a place of provision. Above all this is her worship, her song of adoration to the trees that shield her, the bees that provide their honey, the flowers that allow her to fulfill the request of others, the water that quenches her…. With these final thoughts the song ends and the entire grove itself seems to sing praises: birds chirp, bees buzz excitedly, wind whips past the trees to shower her with their leaves. 

The faerie stands applauding her, somehow a single voice in the chorus of the woodlands. “That was marvelous!” For a split second pride fills her as she forgets his nature as a collector of people, for she sees him solely as a protector. The words thank you nearly leave her lips, but the traditions and teachings of her childhood keep her from uttering such binding words.

“You will be returning next week with a new song, yes?” Despite that and her better judgement she still opens her mouth to make a promise to him. “Of course.”

With that she leaves. Later she’s surprised to learn that she’d been sporting a crown of a certain yellow flower on her way home.

  
  



	3. To Sing the Night Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was late because last week I had posted a different short story.

The sun is setting. The fae frets to himself as he waits at the entrance of his home for his favorite guest. Worry along with a dose of increasing indignity at any human that  _ dares _ disrespect him takes its grasp, sprouting ivy atop his head and thorns along the tree he occupies in wait. Should he feel the need to look down, he’d see a growing bed of petunias that was not previously there. The trees seem to quiver at his growing rage and irritation, spores and leaves convulsing in response to strong gusts of wind that pound against their branches. 

Only when he sees a figure in the distance, pursued by another, does his mood begin to settle. And here she comes, stride hurried and steps heavy, like last time her temperament is ruffled at the hands of another, different human. He stands just barely at her height with his hair cut in an odd fashion. She hurries to the entrance of his home, clutching her basket to her chest. 

“Wait! Don’t go in there, T-!” He freezes when he catches sight of the faerie, who moved to sit up atop his perch. His gaze darkens as he stares at the boy, angry at him for nearly ruining such a riveting game between them. She stops after passing into his home and turns. “As I’ve told you time and time again, I have no interest in your courtship. Find someone else.” The pieces fall into place. 

“Could we discuss this elsewhere?” The boy asks. 

“ _ My _ little witch has a song to play for me. Must you bother us?” Disinterest and mild annoyance colors his words as he looks down at the boy in disdain. Said human hesitates, reacting rightfully with fear and respect.

“I… please visit me later.” Shoes trudging along the dirt road, he leaves. 

The fae follows his human to their clearing where she all but dumps her basket onto the floor. He smirks to himself at her uncharacteristically uncaring nature. 

“Am I correct to assume that was the reason you’re so late to our weekly rendezvous?”

She looks up at him, her eyes weary as she speaks. “Yes, him along with other things. I’m sorry, your-.” Her face drains of color as he near gleefully grins at her misstep. 

“Well,” His lips pull back into a simpering smirk as he brings his hand to his chin.“ I suppose I could forgive you, dear. Though you did put me through  _ many _ displeasing emotions.” Despite his initial high, his victory rings hollow with such an interference and the nearly imperceptible tears that begin to build at the rims of her eyes don’t please him the way other humans’ would. He continues on, the ivy that once adorned him wilts from his hair as he speaks. “To repay your debt you must play your song twice for me tonight and bring me a human delicacy next week.”

She looks up at him in shock. Masking his own with a relaxed smile, he sits back against his stone and slowly combes his fingers through his hair, reasoning to himself that it’d be boring if their game ended such a way, with her being tricked when in emotional distress. “What has you so shaken, my dear?”

A sigh leaves her as she gathers her bearings. “Nothing at all. The week has been long.” She moves to grab her basket, slow and weary. Such an obvious lie is insulting, but the pitiful way she clings to the appearance of normality moves him enough to speak to her calmly.

“Lying to a faerie? My what risky business you’re engaged in.” The slight teasing of his voice seems to provide a degree of comfort as his little witch stands with a small smile, shaky hands stilling and becoming strong in their grasp of-  _ oh a new instrument?  _ The faerie regards it inquisitively. Small log-like blocks of wood are all connected by a single horizontal strip of wood running through them. Curved in shape and descending in size, it fits in both of her hands perfectly and she lowers her lips to it. He watches with bated breath as the whole forest goes quiet in anticipation.

She carefully blows into them and a clear song echoes throughout the silent woodlands as her lips slide over the pipes, a song that is unabashed and reminiscent of birds that rise early to sing the world awake. The music picks up and fireflies make their presence known, lighting up in time with her notes to create a starry field about her. 

As moonlight settles over the scene he can't help but think that she’s beautiful.

  
  



	4. Sweet As Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the radio silence these past few weeks, I've been a bit busy with life. I can guarantee at least 15 chapters though, as that's what I have lined up already. This one was one of my favorites, so please enjoy :)

The witch brings him her favorite pastry from the local bakery, free of charge as per her services to the town. Despite rumors of her affiliation with the fae, the people of her home still regard her with favor, some even more so- viewing her as a new form of mediator. She’s unsure about the new title, but considering she isn’t being attacked nor given any new responsibilities, there’s little need to dissuade them of their opinions. People often forget that the favor of fae is as fleeting as one human life, witch or not.

He’s waiting for her in his tree, plaiting his hair. There seems to be a slight shift in his presentation, more allure, a few more colors of flowers in his hair, a bit more sunlight catching his hair. She’s unsure if it's just the shift towards more warmer seasons or if it's purposeful. 

“Hello little witch, may I have your name?” He speaks with false innocence, purring with a sharp grin, perhaps in jest. Ever careful to maintain boundaries, she shakes her head and holds up the pastry bag. 

“No, however you may have these pastries instead.” Despite herself, a bit of humor makes its way into her voice. A cat-like grin stretches across his face and he seemingly glides down the side of his tree to meet her and pluck the cookies from her fingers. The witch nearly flinches, still not quite used to being considered close enough to a fae to stand next to one. He seems to sense this and his grin grows wider as he disappears into the woods. 

The ground is solid under the soles of her boots, offering small thumps with her steps. Their clearing is looking even more bewitching than the first time she’d seen it. With the blooming of spring growing nearer the forest is flourishing with flora she’d never encountered. Now, vines that climb the faery trees bloom with lush purple buds and… _berries_? They glisten with moisture despite the sun's ever present rays, bright vibrant reds painting them and making her mouth water. 

“Is there something in particular you desire, my Nightshade?” His voice rings out smooth as honey, only slightly pulling her from the trance that had taken hold of her. The words nearly leave her lips before she can think to keep from asking for the delicious berries, but the pressed clover encased in glass is cool to the touch against her palm in her skirts and she is brought back to the present. 

“Were you interested in another deal?” She asks, searching the area for twigs, bones, roots, and herbs that could be of use. He is again attempting to lure her, displaying such inhuman, perfect food for her that, should it pass her lips, would make her want for nothing ever again. In their area of meeting no less… but it is to be expected of a faerie.

Said figure is eagerly biting into one of the jam filled cookies, eyeing her as she delicately plucks one of the clovers that have sprouted along the base of the nearby trees. “Well, now that you mention it, perhaps we can strike up another one similar to last week’s?” A chuckle nearly leaves her lips at just his lack of subtlety, but the risk of offense is far too high. She has a feeling that the pass she was given last week was a one time thing.

“So long as the stipulations remain the same, lord fae.” He hums appreciatively and finishes off the last of his cookies, popping the final morsel into his mouth with a look of satisfaction.

“Your desired item?” 

The witch doesn’t pause to think. “The bud of a white chrysanthemum.” His eyes flash curiously, the meaning behind her request not lost on him. 

“Is that what made you so distraught last week?” Her knowing smile appears despite her inhibitions, yet he seems agitated solely for a split second at his misstep, a pleased smile appearing on his face seconds after. She nods, focusing her gaze on her hands, stripping the bark away from a branch in preparation for a future spell. The loss weighs heavy on her shoulders.

“Yes, though the young man following me did little to lift my mood.” Indeed, he had been a thorn in her side for the past month, continuously attempting to gain her favor. Unlike the other men that had approached her, he was foolishly persistent. Peeking back up at the fae, she’s surprised to see him with a vexed expression. It disappears the instant their eyes connect. Slowly he reaches up to one of the bundles of berries hanging from a nearby branch and plucks it from it’s home. She swallows and watches as he brings one to his mouth and devours it, painting his lips red, all while holding her gaze hostage.

Before she realizes it she’s crawling towards him as the faerie beckons her nearer. Knees resting in the patch of flowers before him, she stops in front of his circle. The song of the forest reverberates in her ears, rising and rising around them as he pulls her closer and closer in the name of her loves. Crickets play a sweet tune, droplets of water pitter-patter against stone, and the grass whispers a sweet lullaby that makes her drowsy. Mind hazy, she leans into his touch. 

Tracing his finger down her cheek before cupping her face, the fae takes her chin in his hand, tipping it just slightly up. He lowers the bunch to her lips as he attempts to take her as his, all while holding her captive under his eyes, bright with the rays of the sun. It’s the call of the town: the laughter of young children that play at the base of the wishing well, the young men and women whispering to it in hopes of receiving their desires, the old praying to their shrines and laughing with their loved ones, that begins to sing in tandem with the forest. Confusion at these two sounds, ones that clash so intensely, yet flow together so elegantly, fills her head. 

Her resistance wanes as he presses a single berry against her lips, his eyes flashing with predatory desire. The witch grasps for anything to keep her in tune with reality, anything at all. 

In her mind is a single phrase, a desperate animalistic one that cuts through the noise like an unholy deafening shout. It disgusts her, but it rings true. 

Through its echoing cry she’s reminded of her grimoire, laying there in her basket, and its pages of history that tie her to this earth. The blank and yet to be filled papers beckon her to stay, call to her above all else to live and finish, loud enough to keep her from opening her mouth to receive his gift. 

He simpers, stained lips pulling back to compliment the hungry glint in his gaze. “I must say, you have really caught my attention, little witch.” 

Despite his words she remains fixed in place as though made of stone. The fae lowers the berries, disappointment only slightly tugging at the corners of his lips, though his eyes still gleam with interest. Her voice eludes her as she clumsily scrambles away from him once released. 

Warmth spreads from the witch’s violin as she clutches it to her chest, suddenly very invested in leaving. It takes a few breaths, once situated in a proper stance, for her to gather her courage to begin her song. It’s frantic, suiting the pace of her heart, but not quite in fear. Despite his show of power she holds firm, bow hopping from chord to chord like a rabbit giving chase to its siblings. Wind whips leaves past her as she recalls the grace of deer that prance through their home, chords growing lighter and lighter. Until her time has come and the tune ends with a final drawn out note.

She’s breathless as she looks him in the eye, his own wide in dismay. Her steps thump in time with her heart as she stops in front of him. Hand held out, she demands from him what he has promised.

He obliges, lowering his hand to gently rest a small seed in her palm. Her lips turn up and eyes glimmer in victory while his own twinkle back at her.

  
  



	5. To Want What One cannot Have

Such an intriguing being belongs with him. The faerie watches from his tree, sharp hawk-like gaze searching the roads before him for his Nightshade. She passes often, occasionally with a villager, often alone. From time to time she stops to give children small trinkets and charms. They cling to her legs and waist, begging for words of affirmation.

It vexes him so. A human, witch or not, so coyly passing him by without sparing so much as a glance. He’d been so close to capturing her, so close to keeping such a pretty little thing to himself, but she resisted, which only makes her more alluring. Waiting has never been a faes game. Not if they can help it. Now more than ever time appears too slow.

Her pink lips often smile reservedly, prettily pushing her cheeks up the slightest bit as she passes people on her way to those who request her aid. The flutter of her skirts reminds him of a butterfly’s display, capturing the attention of nearby men who could only hope for a glimpse of her. She holds herself with grace, stance agile as she hops from place to place, never stagnant within the town. 

Jealousy sprouts a crown of ivy and yellow hyacinths around his head, wilting nearby flowers. Why should she devote so much time to them while he’s left with nothing but a few hours in her presence? For the first time in decades he’s unsure, unsure if he should curse her or bless her with his favor. The audacity within her, to engage with him, a fae, as an equal, infuriates him yet draws him to her. 

A man stops her by her arm as she leaves from the bakery, basket in hand as her time to visit approaches. The faerie wishes so badly to leave his home, just for a moment, to remove his hand from her. His Nightshade does so instead, detaching it firmly and stepping away. Said man bows in apology, holding a small cloth out to her. She shakes her head in refusal, but he continues on until she escapes him with a bow.

Despite himself he perks up as she takes the path to his grove, careful to lift her skirts around the puddles of water that formed from the sprinkles of rain that had blessed them this week. Lilies bloom about him and he plucks one from his hair. 

Just as she crosses the threshold to his domain her shoes catch on her skirt and she falls to the ground. A bed of plush flowers cushions her fall and he watches her climb to her feet. “How careless of you, my Hyacinth.” She looks up at him, her face blooming in rouge. When she stands he nestles a lily within her soft locks, earning a curious look. “No peeking.” He remarks coyly. 

The witch regards him with confusion but does as he says, picking her basket up from the ground and inspecting it. It had splintered under her weight and lays in her hands smushed and pathetic. “Lord fae,” He tilts his head, her voice as pleasant as a birdsong. “May I retrieve a new basket from my home?” 

His arm drops from his branch to lazily caress her face. She stiffens but allows it. “No.” Before she can protest he gets up, gracefully balancing along his walkway and slipping behind his preferred tree. Once there he disappears inside, looking over the number of offerings given to him by more brave townsfolk. Half of them view him in fear, the other in awe. Amusement dances in his eyes as he grabs an old basket he'd received years ago. It’s still sturdy, the wooden splints woven tightly into place to maintain its quality.

When the faery returns she’s knelt on the ground, hopelessly attempting to twist the destroyed fibers back into place in a futile attempt at salvaging it. He holds out the offering, watching with interest as she freezes in shock. Like before it takes her moments to gather her bearings and rise, still clutching the nuisance of a mess in her fingers. He extends his hand. Gingerly, she relinquishes her old basket to him and he crushes it in his grip, making her stiffen, leaving wood dust to rain from his fingers and catch along the small breeze that brushes through the grass below them.

He offers his replacement; perhaps more, perhaps less eager to capture her in his web. Her slender fingers close around its handle and she parts her lips to speak. “I shall put it to good use and treasure it dearly, lord fae.” At this he smiles, his eyes ravenous in their search for the small, tender smile playing at her lips. She picks up her, thankfully, unharmed log instrument, as he’s taken to calling it, and nestles it in its new home.

The two rest at their clearing. “I take it you would like to ask your question?” She asks correctly. Her delicate hands firmly work the earth as she embeds a few seeds from plants she’s taken into deep holes in the ground. 

His Hyacinth looks so lovely in his home, surrounded by flowers with her skirts pooling about her. He wants to ask why she won’t see him more, but that question is already answered in the way her eyes flicker to him nervously. As comfortable she is with his home, it’s the nature of the faerie that keeps her on edge. As it should, for he longs to capture her and keep her within the confines of his land forever. “I’ve lived near you humans for so long, terribly long. While interesting to watch, you live such short, meaningless lives really. Yet  _ you _ live for others. Why would you waste yours in such a way?"

She tilts her head, displeased with him. Again though, it is his nature. Fae don’t bother with others, least of all humans. It’s not a matter of morals, to them it is as it should be. They abide by their own rules, doing as they please. She carefully grinds a few clovers with a pebble against a small slab of wood. “It may be wrong to you, but it is my choice. To make other’s short lives a bit more pleasant is enough to fulfill mine.” 

His eyes narrow. It’s a futile endeavor to him, not worthwhile, and something about the way she speaks, with a calm even tone, rehearsed like the call of a bird, earns a raised brow. For now, she seems content, but… he wonders how such a lie will hold up when she becomes his. Though he concedes with a shallow nod he does wonder about the sincerity of such acts, as any fae would be privy to.

“What would you like today?” He speaks as he slowly knots together a few vines in his hand. 

“Fresh honeycomb, if it’s not a troublesome endeavor for you.” He disappears quickly, appearing at the nearest hive. Whistles soothe the busy workers, tireless in their errands, reminding him of his little Nightshade, as he removes a small portion of their home. They return to their tasks, humming happily to his tune.

The fae appears in the tree above her, scattering petals over her in a shower. She turns to him, green eyes wide in surprise. It’s a captivating scene, deep purples and soft whites settling in her hair and dress, striking against her pale skin. He hands her the dripping, golden treat and is surprised to see her immediately bite into it. Shimmering honey coats her lips, splattering against her fingers as she catches stray droplets with her free hand. She eats slowly, savoring the taste, soft chewing noises and hums leaving her in satisfaction. Her tongue pokes out to swipe away at the honey on her lips.

He’s never wanted another being so badly.

His Hyacinth wraps the rest up in a large leaf provided by an oak and stands to play her tune. Her song is eager, reminding him of children that run about her feet, chipper and full of energy. It rings throughout the grove and frogs begin to show themselves, bouncing about the grass in their excitement. His heart picks up as her music does. More flowers bud around her feet and in his hair. She finishes with a flourishing note, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. His heart continues the melody even when she’s left.


	6. Play Me a Lullaby

It’s late, dusk beginning to settle throughout the sky as she treks to meet the faerie, choosing to honor their unspoken agreement. The witch has been run ragged, with a number of townsfolk falling mysteriously ill throughout the week. Their families begged her for remedies while others requested charms of good fortune and health to ward off the sickness. Weakness drags her feet against the dirt as she struggles to lift them.

He waits at his tree, looking at her with mild disappointment but also- _ no that can’t be right _ \- sympathy? More likely, pity. “Is my Hyacinth tired?” He asks when she enters the grove, his voice making the thoughts and words in her head begin to bleed together even more so than before. She hesitates to answer truthfully, unsure if he’ll take advantage of her in her exhaustion and unsure of whether or not he is already doing so.

“Would my answer truly influence your perception of my appearance?” Her voice is slightly hoarse, strained from days of chanting and casting over potions and charms. Swaying, she pauses in front of his tree, grabbing it to stay upright. All she has to do is appease him, then she may go home.

“How courageous of you, little witch, to visit a being such as myself when you are so…  _ vulnerable _ .” The last word drips from his mouth like virulent honey, making her waver. Here she is, trying to honor their deal and yet—.

Suddenly, he’s by her side, gathering her in his arms and relieving her body of its struggle to keep her upright before she can fight back. “So tempting as you are…” Though she protests half-heartedly, she’s compelled to feel grateful to be freed of her struggle, her mind meshing together words until they form said thoughts without prompting. So strong is the haze that she can’t begin to suspect that he’s using the forest’s song against her anymore. “You’re safe here.” She swears the cicadas hum to her as they travel, easing her mind until it's pliable and softened. The basket sways in her lax grip as he steps carefully around roots and bushes.

The sun has disappeared by the time she’s resting against her favorite tree. Her eyelids struggle to stay up as she speaks. “In the basket… I brought you something.” He crawls over to where it rests against two small toadstools. Despite the dark, his eyes glimmer brightly in anticipation, capturing the moon’s light. She studies him intently. His form is bigger than usual, hands large enough to grip her with one arm, adorned with sharp claw-like nails. Shimmering in a hypnotizing sway as he rifles through the numerous items given to her throughout the day, his hair is a deep blue of the sky, resembling water as it reflects the stars so they may see how brightly they shine.

A moth rests against her arm and she remains still to allow it a moment of reprieve. “Fables and Folktales?” His voice hoots like the call of an owl, soft and inquisitive. The witch sits up, hoping to remain conscious long enough to explain her gift.

“I thought you would appreciate it. You always seem so curious about humans… always watching.” Fireflies blink about them, offering her a bit more vision in the night’s darkness. He grins and it’s toothy, sharp like a wolf’s, but she’s far too tired to be wary of him. Though, like a wolf he seems much softer as he settles next to her, pulling her to rest in his lap. Once again, she can’t decide if it’s something she finds unpleasant, the feeling of discomfort itches at the back of her mind but is soothed as he runs his fingers through her hair and softly hums again. 

The leather cover is dwarfed by his hands, comically so. A tired laugh escapes from her lips and he looks at her questioningly. “It seems so small…” His eyes flicker to where she’s pointing and a soft chuckle leaves his lips. It echoes and flutters past her ears like the soft flap of a moth's wings, making her sigh.

“My dear, enticing Little Nightshade, would you like me to read you a story?” He purrs, already flipping through the pages attentively, mindful to keep from puncturing small holes in the thin sheets with his claws as his other hand curls around her head, cradling it and supporting her neck. She nods at his suggestion as though he's a messiah and she is his mindless sheep, her eyelids beginning to weigh like lead despite her best efforts. In response the faerie eagerly nuzzles his cheek against her, cooing and ignoring the way she makes a sound of wordless displeasure. Her voice peters out as the song of the night eases the slight crease in her brow and his fingers brush against her arm protectively.

“A young prince, the prince of the lands of yore, is promised the hand of the most lovely woman in all the lands, so long as he bides his time and saves his first kiss for his twenty-first birthday…” It’s as though a lullaby is being sung to her: sweet, calming, safe. The feeling of drifting in still waters rocks her back and forth, setting her mind adrift. She takes one more glance at him and it’s as though his smile is made of starlight, twinkling like his eyes so often do. Her eyes flutter closed and she can’t help but trust that, just this once, she is safe.

Morning comes, he’s nowhere to be found and her memories of the night before are hazy at best, but she awakens feeling better than she has in days. Her basket is full of not just the small assortment of gifts she’d received the day before, but also many of the items she often retrieves from his home. She stands and stretches, listening as birds chirp at each other about the new day. A soft sigh sounds behind her and she turns, but the trees are vacant. Something cushy lands upon her head, but no figure rests above her. Pliable to the touch, her fingers trace the petals of the pale pink flowers that ring her head.

On her way home the witch catches a glimpse of her reflection in the wishing fountain. Her lips twitch at the faint stain of berry juice that rests at the crowne of her head and she squares her shoulders, bracing to face the day ahead of her.

  
  



	7. To Take Care of Your Possessions

His Hyacinth visits him more often, some days even twice. She offers him baked goods: bread, cookies, cakes. In return he places a kiss to her cheek, forehead, the back of her hand. Everytime his lips meet her skin she flushes almost imperceptibly, but she returns. With each exchange his blessing is renewed, the birds resting in their nests bear witness and clouds watch over them with interest. He supposes his gentle easing and prodding did convince her of something the night before.

However, as days pass she grows more and more haggard, rushing about the streets of the town, desperately attempting to support those falling prey to the cruel sickness that afflicts their small town. The faerie cares not for their plight, only interested in protecting his Nightshade and watching the human’s responses to the unfurling events. Despite the white chrysanthemums that bloom around their home, both the despairing townsfolks and his own, she returns to him each day with her head held high like the flowers that turn towards the sun no matter where they grow.

This day however, the day she reserves a few precious hours for him alone, her chin quivers as she draws nearer. The chrysanthemums that bloom in his hair begin to wilt, their petals falling like tears for those who’ve been lost. Though he cannot weep for humans whose faces have never graced his gaze, have never intrigued and touched him the way his Hyacinth has, the loss of the spirit of the town is enough. 

The sun is low, ducking it’s head to allow the stars a moment to twinkle and wink at those below them. His form shifts with their announcement, finally having room in the sky for his arms to stretch and caress his ancestors in a moment of worship. She stops outside of his home, hiding her face in the nearest tree for a brief moment.

“What troubles you, my dear?” He sighs the words, letting them rest at her feet, blooming mushrooms in their wait. Fingers twitching, the faerie itches to begin conducting the orchestra of the night, eager to set her adrift. The thought of getting to see her so beautifully at peace, freed from the frivolous pursuits and dilemmas that plague her, makes him eager, but the dulled exhaustion reflected in her eyes makes him wait.

“Dear fae, do you know anything of this illness?” Her words strain to reach around the trunk that hides her. His impatience diminishes and with a soft breath he lowers the pads of his feet to rest in the grass that tickles between his toes. The sprites that spread such a malicious sickness, one of intense coughing and wet gasping breaths, are easily spiteful. It may be the offense of one person, but the illness spreads like the virule nature of dandelion seedlings, the slightest gust of wind swaying their breadth. 

The faerie halts in front of her rowan. “I cannot just  _ give _ you the knowledge you seek, little witch.” No, it’s not the way of the faeries. The chimes of protective wind trinkets ting in the song the pair share, one of buzzing mosquitoes and chiming instruments, offering their silence a solace to rest in.

His little witch steps out from behind the tree, clutching her basket in her hands. Her jaw clenches tightly, as through biting back words. Glittering eyes stare into his, reflecting the stars in the sky and brimming with feelings she doesn’t dare share. She extends slightly shaky hands out to him, offering a book in exchange for his words. 

He kneels in the grass, gently taking her head in his hand, ignoring her slight flinch. It feels as though he’s caressing a hummingbird, so small and delicate, yet prideful in his grasp. “Am I to alleviate their pain, or your own?” At his words she shakes her head, unwilling to relinquish such knowledge to him, or perhaps admit to her own “selfishness” as humans might say. “You require a reprieve from your work.”Again she refutes him. He begins to hum, letting the soft call of his forest again lull her into security. She needs rest and it seems she isn’t vested in doing so, thus the fae is called to rely on his natural inclinations. Not only will she sleep, but in return for his generosity he will be rewarded with seeing his favored human donning one of his favorite expressions of hers. Fair skin smoothed out, soft lips gently parted, she is the epitome of vulnerable and tempting in her state between life and death, an image he desires to burn into his mind.

The faerie takes the book with his free hand, the velvety leather binding rubbing against the soft pads of his fingers. “One in your village has provoked the ire of a spiteful faery. You must isolate the sick and place offerings at the door of every villager; milk and bread will garner you the most favor. Search the town for broken or cut faery circles and when you find one plant a rowan seed in its center.” 

“You’ve done all you can this week, now it’s time to rest.” He whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. His Hyacinth immediately collapses into the plume that sprouts from his shoulder and nods hazilly in agreement, swaying in time with his song so he may lift her into his arms. This time they rest atop his favorite tree and he rocks her to sleep while humming a small tune to her until her breathing slows and she sighs contentedly. 

He smiles, tracing a finger around the contours of her cheekbones, down the curve of her jaw, and stopping at her lips, memorizing the plains of her face the way he does the terrain of his land. “Sleep well, my human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update and slightly shorter chapter, but its relevant and the next one will be a long one. Hope you enjoyed it :)


	8. Another Day, Another Promise

The broken faery circle rests in the woods behind the home of the first stricken with the illness, pneumonia the witch discovered in one of her family grimoires. Dirt burying under her nails, she digs a small hole in the soil and drops the rowan seed into it, pressing the soil firmly into place to ensure it will spread its roots deep into the ground. With a small chant she sprinkles water from the grove’s brook over it and leaves.

Her shoes click against the stone that marks the paths around the town. Its streets are devoid of song, filling her heart with sorrow as children and families are confined to their homes in order to contain the spread of the illness. She replenishes the bread and milk at the doors of the sick, placing pressed lavender leaves beneath the bowls. Bells jingle, resting at the doors of those who have yet to contract the virus. 

When she stops to water the chrysanthemums outside one home there's a quiet cough and her gaze is pulled to the door where a young woman peeks out. Her hair is long and bright like sunlight as it streams through leaves and gaps in foliage. The pink of her eyes reminds her of the roses that occasionally flower in her dear fae’s hair. “Thank you, Miss Witch.”

“I’m simply doing my duty to the town.” She responds, shaking her head. Most witches do not actively work to benefit a people, they seek to gain more knowledge and practice their crafts in isolation. But, being taken in by the village and welcomed after she'd proven not to be a threat, even despite some scrutiny, made her grateful to its people, especially after being run out from her first village due to… less than savory relations with powerful men there.

The girl slips her arm out to hand her a novel with a kind smile. “Please give it to him today. I heard he likes books. ” The witch is inclined to ask how, but eyes tend to follow her on rest days. She takes it and gently sets it in her basket that she carries along with her favored violin. 

He’s not at his usual spot, which is a surprise considering the past few weeks of his constant gaze on her back, which she  wouldn’t admit to enjoying as it definitely did  _ not _ make her feel cared for. “Lord Fae?” She calls, following the path to her clearing. Each step is counted until she reaches the space, careful not to get lost as she goes further into his grove without him there.

“My Hyacinth.” His arms wind around her and she jumps. Against her wishes her heart nearly leaps from her throat. He has rarely directly touched her unless she’s in a state of exhaustion.“I’ve brought you something special.”

Something cool to the touch wraps around her neck, snugly arranging itself in place against the delicate skin.  _ A necklace? _ “It will protect you.” She reaches up, wanting to unfasten it and see it for herself, but his hands stop her own. “Are you rejecting my gift?” His words warn of the consequences of rejecting fae gifts, a most grievous choice of action. Though accepting them is in itself a gamble. Generally, one should only accept gifts from a trusted fae, and the witch had received a gift from him earlier that was indeed not cursed. She is somewhat obligated to accept this one now, she supposes.

“No, I simply wanted to see it for myself. I mean no offense.” He sighs and removes it. It rests in his hands, a silver chain, long enough to fit over a person's head, glinting in the daylight. In it’s center lies a glittering gem, a blue lighter than the sky and nearly as clear as the water of the forest. “How lovely…” She wants to reject it, not out of malice, but to avoid the guilt of indulging herself in such a way. Gifts are not rare to her, it is accepting them that fills her with unease, as often they are never given from the kindness of another's heart. Still, that would be a most unwise decision…

“But of course, I’ve chosen it myself.” Despite his haughty choice in words amaryllis begin to bud and pop open at their feet, betraying his excitement at her appreciation. “Now, I desire to see it on you.” It's odd, how the chain almost seems to shorten to fit snugly around her neck, but she supposes it's his glamour modifying it to suit her. The phrasing of its purpose makes her raise a brow, suspicious of his intentions given his previous attempts at entrapping her. Though, her cheeks color, she supposes for now it will stay; given his past actions and such.

“It looks… exquisite on you.” He nearly sounds breathless as he speaks, causing her cheeks to darken to the point where her ears are warm as well. Never before has she actually felt cherished when hearing such words. Still, it’d be unkind not to return the favor somehow.

“Surely this item is a mere reflection of the beauty of its original owner, who has graced me with his presence.” 

Poof! Feathers burst from his shoulders and an entire meadows worth of flowers springs to life atop his head. She smiles behind her hand. His face remains serene as he situates himself next to her, but when she turns back from retrieving his gift from her basket a good number of crushed flowers are poorly hidden between his fingers, their roots and pitifully torn petals peeking out as he hides his hands in his lap. 

“I’ve brought you an offering from one of the villagers.” The witch says, holding it out to him. The faerie takes a moment, trying to hide the flowers with one hand as he grabs the book with his other. “H-Hand me those berries, dear.” He points over her shoulder at the same red berries from before.

She stares in confusion. They aren’t as captivating as the times she had seen them earlier, they’re still perfect but she doesn’t find herself particularly hungry. Perhaps… her hand reaches up to grasp a cluster, staining the tips of her fingers red. It seems his gift does serve to protect her in some way, she thinks as her lips twitch upward.

When he graces her vision again his hair is draped over his shoulders and the flowers from before are nowhere to be found. “Here you are.” She says, gently dropping them into his hand. His hair shifts, exposing a cluster of feather heads and a few flowers.

“Ahem,” her eyes flicker up at the fae, “So this offering?” 

“It was given to me by a young woman, I believe she wanted to express her appreciation, or perhaps earn favor.” He tilts his head with interest, exposing more feathers. The familiar devious spark twinkles in his eyes.

“Oh, why not direct her to me?” He says. 

The witch shakes her head with a frown, leaning forward and wagging her finger at him. His eyes flicker back and forth, following its movement. “Oh no, I will not be held liable for your trickery. Fae’s dealings are not my own.” He grabs her wrist, stopping her movements and pulling her close to him. Despite his teasing smile his plume puffs up to tickle her chin and words caress her ears.

“Then what would you call what we are doing right now?” His voice hums and her face flushes.  _ It isn’t fair. _ The feeling of being blown about by the wind, subject to its whims despite all attempts to anchor oneself down, plagues her. It always feels just out of reach… everywhere. She has her pride to maintain after all.

“I would call what  _ I  _ am doing entertaining a fae. Would you inform me as to what you think  _ you’re _ doing?” As she speaks she slips her hand away from his with a tug. The feeling of invasive and wanton hands has never been a favorite of hers. His eyes widen before he grins and crawls closer to her, his face inches from her own flushed one.

“ _ I  _ am playing with my favorite human.” She scoots away, pushing his shoulder just a bit in the process, so subtly that it could be mistaken for her attempting to move rather than distance herself. “Where are you going?” Her hands dig into the basket, rifling through it before gripping her violin’s bow, which she holds up as her answer. Brows drawing down, he stares in confusion despite her answer.

“I believe it is about time I return home.” The witch stands, grip tightening enough to let the chord dig into her palm. She begins to play, one of her older, shorter songs. It’s more rapid, the notes not quite defined as in her more recent songs, but it’s over as soon as it begins, and she’s gathered her things up to leave quickly.

“Might I know what has you rushing away from me so suddenly, my dear Nightshade?” Her eyes flick to him. Genuine confusion creases his forehead and cornflowers pop against the light blue of his hair. She sighs, guilt filling her stomach at her strong reaction to his advances and touch.

“I must ask that you keep from touching me without my permission… please.” The words come out stern and harsh, but she’s careful to tack on a please to keep from offending him. Rest assured the witch has experience with having to draw clear boundaries, but never with a being such as him.

He tilts his head, his eyes processing her movements while his mind is occupied elsewhere. “If you request it so, my dear. I promise not to touch you without your permission.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised this chapter is indeed longer than the other. We're beginning to catch up to my stockpile, so I'll mention if my upload schedule changes. The chapters may grow longer as the story progresses, as some already have, which means they require a bit more time to write. I will do my best to maintain my current schedule, but life may get in the way. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this one :)


End file.
